


Chasing time with your falling heart

by gustin_puckerman



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, soulmate aus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3271091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gustin_puckerman/pseuds/gustin_puckerman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her time stamp’s bright and clear on her forearm, counting down the years and months and weeks and days and hours ever since she’s taken her first baby step and learned to count from one to two to three. She’s never liked them. Always felt like she’s <em>trapped</em> to meet this person―as though when the time came, when it’s rounding off to zero and she’ll look up to her so called “soulmate”, she’ll have no choice but to love whoever it was that she’s destined to be with for the rest of her life.</p><p>And then her soulmate turns out to be Clint Barton.</p><p>Soulmate AU: where the time counts down until you meet your soulmate. Based on a tumblr prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Original prompt** : It's basically a soul mates in SHIELD!AU except the moment Bobbi finds out Clint's her soulmate it's the moment when Clint infiltrates the Hellicarrier during loki's attack in the avengers. And the first thing Bobbi has to do is fight the guy she's destined to love.
> 
>  **AU I've chosen** : Soulmate AU where the time counts down until you meet your soulmate.

The countdown stamps on your right forearm.

Some cases, it could be on your ribs. Your chest. Your neck. But mostly. Mostly it’s on your forearm. Some don’t even have them. Bobbi doesn’t know the science behind it, but she’s heard that you can remove them. But it’ll leave scars. Nasty scars. Scars that are so raw and red and horrifying that you, yourself can’t help but to feel violated by them even if you’re not the person who went through the torturous act.

She’s seen a few of them, of course. Being in the line of work that she’s in. But never closely, never intently.

(The first time she saw them, she puked. She can’t imagine living her life having such personal thing being taken away from her. Raped. Abused. Beaten and scratched until there’s _nothing_.)

((She’s heard from somewhere the Black Widow’s time stamp was removed. It’s on the back of her shoulder, now stood lined and scarred and _none-existent_.))

Bobbi was born ordinarily normal, as far as ordinarily normal could go she supposed. Her time stamp’s bright and clear on her forearm, counting down the years and months and weeks and days and hours ever since she’s taken her first baby step and learned to count from one to two to three. She’s never liked them. Always felt like she’s trapped to meet this person―as though when the time came, when it’s rounding off to zero and she’ll look up to her so called “soulmate”, she’ll have no choice but to love whoever it was that she’s destined to be with for the rest of her life.

Like he or she would be the most definite thing for her. Like life didn’t trust her enough to make her own goddamn choices about who she could spend her whole lifetime with.

It’s ridiculous.

So she went on a whim and got married. There was nothing fancy about getting a ring on your finger and making it legal to be “together” with anyone―but she liked the thrill. And she loved the man. And sex. _God_ , she loved sex. Like, a lot. She didn’t always got off―but she figured it’s okay because she’d always loved seeing _him_ getting off. It’s the way he caved under your fingers or tongue, you know? The way he gasped your name, practically _begging_ for it.

Yeah, Bobbie’s _that_ kind of girl.

It’s whatever. They didn’t work out. She guessed she should’ve seen it coming―especially when the numbers on her forearm were still steadily going down whenever she’s kissing him. It still didn’t make the whole divorce thing a _good_ thing. It sucks, for the most part. Like she’s failed a mission to proof to herself that this whole countdown-to-your-soulmate thing was complete bullshit.

Whatever. You move the fuck on.

She gets it.

 

 

 

 

Moving on probably means she should already sign those damn divorce papers by now. But, whatever, you know?

 

 

 

 

She hates being on the Helicarrier.

No, you don’t get it. Normally, she’d love this. Flying. Being on the sky. One of her favourite things, really. But there’s a difference between a Quinjet, a Bus and a Helicarrier. She works well with a Quinjet. It’s the closest thing she has with a chopper, and that’s always a good thing. It’s smaller, intimate―more personal. She likes it.

The Bus―you have the cockpit. So while there are other people, she can still get herself alone. Just her and the sky and the steady sound of the engine rumbling underneath her control and she’ll be okay.

But the Helicarrier.

The _Helicarrier_ , she tells you. That’s a whole other thing altogether. She can’t pilot the thing on her own. The ‘carrier need constant supervision, and they’d usually have at least _five_ men monitoring that. And then there’s the people. Agents crawling up and down, all with a mission of their own. Sure, you’ve got your own cabins if you’ve past Level Clearance 5―but that doesn’t mean definite privacy. And Bobbi? Oh, she can definitely appreciate some privacy when she really needs it.

(Sometime she just likes to pretend she’s a broke musician trying to make it in LA. Or New York. Living in a cramped apartment. Just her and _Bruce Springsteen_ and warm summer air. No soldiers. No secrets. No life-or-death undercover missions.)

It itches.

The first time she’s stepped into the Helicarrier, stalking her way up to give her mission report. The time stamp. It itches. It tingles in a way that makes her squirm, but not hard enough that it twitches her professionalism away. She keeps it together, of course. Like she always does. Like she’s meant to.

Hill only glances briefly, going over the report she just gave distractedly. “You alright there, Bob?”

"Fine." She replies casually, knowing the whole Avengers thing that’s going on is bothering the heck out of the dark-haired woman. "Sore. Germans could really tackle a girl if they try."

"Yes, they can." Hill merely hums, seeming satisfied. "Dismissed, Agent."

She gets the hell out.

She likes Maria and all. But she’s more fun when she’s not so uptight and going around frowning over Fury or Stark or Coulson or something. Oh, Bobbi’s been there.

The itch goes away. For a while.

It isn’t until she’s safe up in her private quarter and she’s stripping off the remnants of the tattered thing she unfortunately could still call clothing off her skin that she finally notices her time stamp.

00:00:00:00:13:13:57

13 hours left.

The last time she checks it, she’s pretty sure it read 91 days left to go. How in the hell did it got 13 hours left on the clock? And _while_ she’s on the Helicarrier? As far as she’s concerned, the thing’s not supposed to land in at least a week from now.

Bobbi suddenly felt a pang of panic rushing down her spine.

But she doesn’t believe it.

Never does.

Her soulmate? Yeah, right.

But you know―bring it on.

 

 

 

 

It starts with a horrible shake.

A horrible shake while you’re at least 30 thousand feet up in the sky is never a good thing, and as far as she’s concerned, they weren’t heading anywhere that could’ve had any storms hitting their way. So yes, she’s unsettled.

And then, the alarm goes off.

And every thing crashes down. She hurries quickly, feet tapping down the hallway while she gathers the scientists and rest of the staff down to where they’re supposed to go to; help wherever she could, wherever she’s needed. Get everyone to safety. That’s the first priority. Always. _Always_.

And then she hears muffling of pleas.

She registers two men, help them up. “There’s, uh, there’s an agent.” The taller guy starts to explain, barely catching his breath.

"The Black Widow," one interrupts.

"With, uh," the other says again, "I think it was the Hulk."

"She’s stuck." One continues, "I don’t think she can move."

A.K.A The Black Widow may or may not need her help. Well, great.

"Right." Bobbi nods, "You boys know where to go. Stay alert."

They part ways.

 

 

 

 

Her soulmate turns out to be Clint Barton.

She was on her way to help the Black Widow―what was the preferred term again? Agent Romanoff?―she really was. Until she stumbles against him. At that point, her arm itches like crazy. Like she actually think she’s developing some kind of rash when she looks down to realise that her number’s counting down to zero.

 _Zero_.

00:00:00:00:00:00:04

She frowns, removes her hand from scratching further.

00:00:00:00:00:00:03

 _What the_ ―

Something creaks. Bobbi looks up.

00:00:00:00:00:00:02

"Show yourself." She announces, holding up her favourite pair of staves.

00:00:00:00:00:00:01

A shadowy figure steps from the shadow. “Agent.”

"Barton?"

00:00:00:00:00:00:00

” _What’s new?_ " She remembers her own voice echoing when she’s handing down the report towards Hill’s way just twelve hours ago, watched as the slightly older woman slumped against her chair and let out an air of frustration harshly through her nostrils.

” _Well, Barton’s become Loki’s personal puppet. Fury’s getting twitchy_.”

” _Barton? You mean, the famous Hawkeye?_ ”

Hill sighed some more. “ _Is there any other?_ ”

So Bobbi launches the first attack. Her movements solidifying when she sees the bright blue hue shining in his eyes. She’s mostly certain she’s heard that the famous archer’s got hearing problems―not eyes. So unless she’s missing on some very weird, important trend involving contact lenses; she’s pretty sure he’s not, well, _Clint Barton_.

She could tell that by the time her staves had hit him twice on his face and he’s spitting out blood as he’s thrown down, that he doesn’t expect her to stand in battle against him for more than five seconds. It kind of makes her feel good.

But Barton’s good. Quicker. Smarter.

In just one swift movement or two, he’s got his hand at the back of her neck and ready to bring her forehead against the wall if she hadn’t kicked her way out of that one. She twists his arm and huffs when her gaze slides a bit more downwards and she finally notices it―

He’s got no time stamp.

On either arm.

He knocks her down. She couldn’t remember how she’s gotten there, but she remembers hearing him stomping away when he’s finally sure he’s won their fight; she’s sure she sees the Black Widow slithering in the background, before she surprises him a bit further away from where Bobbi’s helpless body lies.

She’s hurt, she knows.

But she think it hurts even more―more than she anticipates it―to realise that while she’s found her soulmate in Clint Barton, Clint Barton might’ve not found his soulmate in her.

Maybe that’s what she gets from trying to rebel against the system.

Bobbi passes out.

 

 

 

 

"Clint Barton’s my soulmate." She blurts out when she finally recovers, right after she revels in the silence that Maria allows after she’s dropped it that Phil Coulson has died. She doesn’t know that man very well, not as well as Hill or Barton or Romanoff had known him, but Coulson’s quite a legend around the organisation. One of the respected ones, you could say.

She thinks Coulson’s one of the people who’d passed her on her examination at the end of the Academy.

"What?" Maria blurts out like it’s poison, and Bobbi tries her best not to flinch. Tries. It hurts to keep a straight face when half of your head is swelling up like a damn potato. The medics said she’s suffering from a major concussion. Which sucks.

"My number." She pulls on her sleeve, runs her fingers down the sacred area that’s counted to nothing. "It goes down when I met him."

Maria gives a look.

Bobbi rolls her eyes, “I don’t joke. I’m not joking. You know I don’t actually believe in this stuff but―” she hesitates, still remembers the first time she’s taking in his face when he’d stepped in to reveal himself; the way the itches intensify, lingers and shimmers under her epidermis. “It counted down when I saw him. And there was no one else. No one else in there. I didn’t―I didn’t see the Black Widow, if she was even there, so she couldn’t be… But I saw him. And my number… it went zero.”

"You think…" Maria goes on blankly, a tone of surprise lightening up gently over her voice, "…Barton is your soulmate."

"Maria."

"What?" She snaps. "What do you expect me to say?"

"I don’t know." Bobbi doesn’t ask about her number; and thinks that maybe this isn’t the best of time to discuss this. Hill’s here to mourn, not to listen to her confused rambling. "I don’t…" She takes a deep breath, then tugs on her hair like it’s the cause of her whole problem. "He doesn’t have it. I don’t see a time on his forearm."

Maria stays quiet.

"I just…" She swallows and looks at her laps, at her open palm and her stretched fingers. This happens, of course. Rarely. But it happens. The curious cases of unrequited soulmate. She just never expects to have it happened to _her_.

And especially when it’s with _Clint friggin Barton_ , of all people, goddamn.

"He’s not… _mine_.”

She doesn’t know why she sounds so disappointed.

Maria suddenly stands up. Bobbi watches. The other woman appears unsettling―calm, cool and steady-headed―but there’s an air of something that’s not ultimately good, and Bobbi could feel it tingle down her skin. Maria finally breathes out: “It’s on his chest.”

"What?"

"His time stamp." Maria gives out some more. "It’s on his chest. At his ribs."

Bobbi suddenly feels light-headed.

"But it’s counted to zero." Maria adds, glancing away like she’s _guilty_ or something. Like it’s her fault this stupid system exists. “It’s counted to zero for a while now.”

Bobbi blinks. “Since when?” She dares herself to ask, just because.

Maria looks at her, harshly. Coldly. And then her shoulder drops, her posture slackening, just a bit, like the weight of the world has finally caught up to her, and she’s surrendered herself reluctantly.

Bobbi waits.

"Since he’s met Natasha."

 

 

 

 

She meets him two weeks later on her way out of Hand’s office. He’s sitting there in what, she assumes, was the office of Phil Coulson. Just sitting there amidst the boxes and clatters of papers. For a moment, he doesn’t look like a highly trained assassin. He just looks like a man.

An _ordinary_  man.

(Totally not her type.)

She doesn’t know what makes her do it. But she knocks on the door, tilts her head when he looks up to her, shows him a smile even though all she wants to do is puke back all of the breakfast she’s had two hours earlier.

"Well, _you_ look busy.” She says when she casually leans herself against the door, casually glancing at all of the boxes instead of his (suddenly handsome) face.

"Yeah, yeah. Just…" He trails off, shutting himself down.

"This was Phil Coulson’s office."

His eyebrows shot up. “You knew him?”

"No, not really." She says and doesn’t acknowledge the slight ache at his disappointed face, instead goes on and continues, "But I’ve heard of him. He’s a great guy."

"Yeah," the archer merely answers, "He’s a friend."

"You two were really close, huh?"

"We get along," he returns with a shrug, running a reluctant hand down the side of his scalp. "Sorry, who’re you again?"

"Oh yeah. I’m uh, Morse. _Agent_ Morse.” She hates that she has to introduce herself with her surname. _Hates_ it. She wonders if he notices it. Probably not. Or if he does, he probably doesn’t care enough to point it out. Which is for the best. “I just got back from… uh, Hand’s office,” she gestured lamely, “New mission, and all. Saw you and thought maybe you needed a second hand, or something.”

He stands up.

"You’re level clearance 5?"

She nods.

He nods back.

(Awkward.)

Bobbi purses her lips, smiling kindly, ignoring the fact that her forearm itches: “So, no help?”

"Huh? No." He quickly shakes his head, his one hand goes up to rub on a space down his ribs. "M’good. I actually uh… Nat? Yeah, she’s helping me. I’m sorry, I mean, Agent _Romanoff_. She’s just out somewhere to get us a cheesecake or something. We’re supposed to have this cleaned up by five.”

Ah. “Right.” Bobbi rubs her hand down the side of her jeans, nodding again. “So, you’re good?”

"Yeah." He smiles reassuringly, while she takes one step back. "Yeah, thanks."

"No problem," she calls back, trying to clear her voice enough from scratches to indicate she’s hurt or anything (which she _isn’t_ ) and begins to turn around. Until―

"Wait, Morse?"

She looks back.

"Do I know you?"

(Bobbi thinks she could feel her breath hitches, the world stops.)

He scratches the back of his head, his nose scrunching up as, she imagines, his thought turns, probably trying to scramble back through thousand of memories in an attempt to match her face with anything. “You look familiar,” he adds, and for a moment Bobbie isn’t sure if she’s capable of _thinking_.

He stares back.

Finally (finally) faking a smile, she shakes her head, shakes her shoulder. “No. I don’t think you do.”

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Sorry, then."

"It’s okay. It happens."

"I guess I see you later."

 _Yeah, maybe not_. Bobbie fakes another smile. “Yeah.”

She walks away.

 

 

 

 

She finally signs the divorce papers.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a part two. Maybe. If I'm not lazy enough. Meh.


	2. it's like the sun came out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Clint finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well colour me surprise, I actually finished this. [insert gurgling happy dork noises]

 All and all, Clint's a pretty relaxed guy.

He doesn't like to fuss so much, and he's the type to hang back and just get himself with the surroundings, ya'know? He's also not like, the _smartest_ one or whatever, which is just fine with him, because that way, people don't really expect anything out of him. People don't expect a lot from him. Much less of all a leader, a _thinker_. No, Clint's like―he's like the _action type_ of guy, you know? Act first, think later. A follower, too. You give him a target, give him _order_ , and there's a 96% he'll shoot it down.

But also like, while he’s not the smartest, he gets that it sorta makes him gives off this sort of vibe that he's like, _dumb_ or whatever. But not in the way that have people disrespected him like he’s nothing (because seriously? Have you actually _tried_ messing with Hawkeye? Ain't pretty, my friend.), more so that people just dismisses him easily from time to time. It's how he gets people off of his back from forcing him to do paperworks and stuff, so yeah, he's actually really fine with playing a little pretence. (Maria usually could call on his bullshit, but let’s not try to rain further on his parades.)

But _fuck_ _no_ ―he's not an ignorant bastard, alright.

He's kind of, what you called, an _observant_. He looks, he watches and he listens. It's like, embed in his DNA or whatever, to be that way. Yeah, sure. He doesn't actually confront every frickin' controversial situation he sees, but here's the point―he _sees_. No matter small or big. If you're in his range and he's focused enough, likeliest chances are? You're probably being stalked by Hawkeye.

(It's kind of creepy, he knows.)

So when pretty blonde suddenly shows up from Hand's office offering _help_ and his chest tingles like crazy, he knows better not to let it go. It's probably nothing. S'not like the blonde gives out bad vibe or whatever, but he _seriously_ thinks he's seen her before. He just couldn't pin-point out where or when, or maybe if he'd just seen her in passing, but one thing's for sure: she's... _familiar_.

But then Nat comes back with cookies and Clint forgets all about her.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes Clint thinks he's really in love with Natasha.

Like this one time they hadn't seen each other for months and he just got back from North Russia and he's eating or chewing or _attempting_ to swallow the rice because he's really just tired if he were to be honest when he got a buzz from his phone (he didn't even remember he had that thing well and charged when the Commanding Officer finally gave him the green light to return home) and noticed that he's gotten a text from Nat.

She said, 'bought this today. Reminds me of u' and attach an image of a silver necklace with a thin arrow hanging limply from her slightly roughed-up hand, which just kind of made him grin throughout the night like a fourteen year old teen in love, it's even kind of ridiculous.

But anyway, Nat makes him feel good.

And she makes him feel... like, _young_. Like whenever he sees her face with that little smile of hers and that sneaky green eyes, he's got this hummingbird feeling in his stomach that he won't ever admit himself to ever having to.

But, "love is for children" she chants, like it's been sewn well into the heart that makes her _her_ and so Clint keeps her close and keeps her safe―but he knows her long enough to learn where he's allowed to prod into, and where to not; so he doesn't tell. He doesn't tell even though some nights he wakes up feeling like he's so drunk up in love, he could die from _blushing_.

He doesn't say.

Doesn't admit to the time stamp brushing down his ribs that weighs too much at times for a number that presents nothing. It bothers him. Bothers the fuck out of him, actually. And he partially thinks sometimes that she knows. And maybe she does. And maybe she doesn't. Either way, it's not gonna make him blabber all about it.

He can't, really.

 

 

 

 

He sees Pretty Blonde again when he's walking into Hill's office.

But that's probably most of his fault because, as Hill's put it, he's really _got_ to learn how to knock, but it's kind of late and they're in Peru, and he's bored, and he thought she'd be nose-deep in paperworks (what else?) trying to clean up whoever's mistakes when instead, all he sees is Hill actually looking relaxed and Pretty Blonde's across from her with her head tilted backward while she barks out a small amused laughter.

She really _is_ pretty.

"Barton." Hill begins in that tone of hers that kind of also means, ' _you sick fuck_ ' while Pretty Blonde hikes up an eyebrow to show him that she’s surprised by his surprised. No. Maybe not surprised. _Unexpected_ , maybe, of the fact that he’d just barged in. But―there's more to it too, he can see. Like, she's interested by this sudden appearance of him, or whatever.

"I didn't―" Clint begins clearing his throat as he leans a little against the doorframe, feeling kind of left out with all of the girl-on-girl bromance going on (or is there something more hmmm?) and tries, "―know you had company."

"You never do." Hill says coolly, shuffling quickly into that cold and calculating mode that he kind of hates her for whenever she does it and stacks up some papers. She stands up, Pretty Blonde follows.

"Nineteen." Hill says some more.

"Yeah. I'll do something about it." Pretty Blonde's clearly continuing off from whatever conversations they're having, an easy smile appear young on her face and Clint feels a sudden heat rushes up his chest, spreading suspiciously around the area of his ribs. "Don't worry, okay?"

"I'll stop worrying when I stop getting reports about it."

"Got it."

"Barton, you're here for something?"

He suddenly realises that Hill's talking to him; Pretty Blonde still looks half-amused, which kind of makes him feel all goofy inside. Crazy. "Yeah. Just―I thought you'd be up for like, some Tacos or whatever. You're busy, though?"

"Oh no. No." Pretty Blonde interrupts, a type of light laughter chimes in her voice. "I'm leaving. So, _you_ ―" She turns to Hill, "―should be free to get something to eat."

Maria gives her a dry look.

" _Please_ get something to eat." Pretty Blonde continues, now grabbing a leather jacket from the seat.

Hill nods, and surprisingly adds: "Be safe."

Pretty Blonde merely nods as she slips on the jacket to her shoulders, brushing off curls of golden hair down her back―feet already being steadily dragged out of the office. Clint feels something swells up.

"Morse." He finally greets out as she passes.

(What, you _really_ think he doesn't know her name?)

She looks hesitant, like she hadn't been expecting that from him (and he guesses she hadn't?), then smiles. Just like the first time he met her. With the same polite gesture, the same pink lips and the same strange intensity in her eyes that he can never properly read off from. She nods, "Barton" as though that's everyday thing to her, before giving Hill her last croon of goodbye.

It makes him kind of proud to find out that she knows his name.

"You know her?" Hill asks when he closes the door behind him―Pretty Blonde's completely gone then―watches as Hill pushes more papers away to their respective files.

"Who? The blonde? No, not really." He answers truthfully, then zeroes in his attention, "Why?"

"Nothing." Hill says without as much as a blink, clipping up a file and keying down a drawer. "So, Taco?"

 

 

 

 

 

He recovers her file.

Pretty blonde's, that is, and not... the other women. (He never asks for Natasha's files. Never. He's pretty sure most of it are blackened out, anyways, so s'not like it's worth going through the trouble. And Maria's―frankly, with that woman, he doesn't _need_ to.)

It's probably not the wisest thing to do, but he does it anyway. (Hey, he said once he's never been the smartest.) But he doesn't really get into it until about a week later when he's finally safe in the comfort of his own apartment and he's chewing up a real, nice sandwich (first real thing he's eaten in three days) and there's really nothing on the TV and he realises that the thing has been there sitting under a cold cup of coffee that he's finished half-way the morning earlier.

He carefully brushes off the crumbs before picking up the file, and there's a nervous sharpness that swivels up the top front part of his body, one he thought that had long since vanished because of his line of work. Guilt. (He knows it's guilt, because guilt has always make him feel like he could throw up and pass out all at the same time.)

He doesn't like dwelling much with guilt―it discourage the accuracy of his shootings tremendously―so he tries to just live with most stuff and says he's sorry when he needs to.

But suddenly _this_. 

Now staring at the number of level clearance it presents: it makes him kind of sick. But he doesn't know why. Which is weird. S'not like he knows Morse personally to feel _this_ bad. But―he's usually a respectful guy, you know? This privacy breaching thing? Totally not cool whether or not you know the person as more than just... an acquaintance. (And he doesn't think he knows Morse as even an _acquaintance_. More like Pretty Blonde. That's it.)

But.

Clint sighs.

And opens up her file

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn't really know what to expect out of it.

Most of her profile are pretty neat. She's got a PhD, but she doesn't look like one to turn it into a big thing, and her name's actually _Barbara Morse_ , goes also by Agent Nineteen and (well, _this_ is interesting, he chuckles at this definitely) Mockingbird, and her combat skill's pretty amazing, success rate after every mission? Nearly complimentary. All and all, she's pretty standard for a 5 Level Clearance of a SHIELD Agent. Clint's not sure if he's even surprised―not everybody gets a case being handed to you personally by Hand or Hill. So, while she's standard ( _ordinary_ , if you may)―she must have been pretty fricking special, too, he supposes.

Every at-the-end-of-the-mission reports she'd written come in closed and calculated (but very nice, very pretty) handwritings, and there're nearly all formal words. (You should've seen _his_ paperworks. There's a reason people don't trust him with this stuff.) So, he guesses she's pretty cool.

A good agent too.

Even Phil said so. Written in an old paper that says ‘ _PASSED_ ’ in bold letter dated years ago in which, Clint guessed, must’ve been the year Agent Morse finally took the exam to officially gather her SHIELD badge. 

Phil must’ve been one of the agents to supervise the cadets then. Her being one of them. And he had rooted for her. Even did a little goofy smiley face that Phil can see Coulson later scratched on it, probably knowing it wasn’t professional or something. Wow.

Clint sits back for a bit and let that sinks in. His eyes go over to the television to realise that they're airing _Brady Bunch_ on marathon and he's not even a bit upset that he's missed half of it. He reasons that he's tired anyways.

So he gets comfortable and pulls up on a blanket that he keeps at the edge of his sofa, turns over the file again and read where he can. He sleeps with her name at the edge of his tongue _Barbara, Barbara, Barbara_ and then

 _Birdie_.

Clint doesn't know how to feel but it's―

Yeah, it's pretty new.

 

 

 

 

 

Is it wrong to note that his chest feels like it's on fire? Yeah.

 

 

 

 

 

He feels kind of ashamed that he wanna _wants_ to get to know her better. It's just―he'd like to know more than just papers and pictures, ya get him? And he can get pretty lonely. Also: how rare it is that you could find someone with a bird-oriented codename? Very rare. Hawkeye. Mockingbird. They've _gotta_ sit down and talk about it. Preferably over pizza and cokes.

And anyway, he's pretty sure Morse's a pretty nice person for him to get to know better.

But they're shipping him off to Europe the next second, so he gets his head in the gear and keeps accepting Nat's pictures of dogs on surfboards even though he's pretty sure she's supposed to be seducing some Italian mob somewhere.

Oh well. Whatever. Dogs on surfboards are _hilarious_.

 

 

 

 

 

"Have you ever re-thought about your soulmate?" Cap asks one day when they coincidentally met, and the guy looks pretty beat up and out-of-focus but the tone he's using is serious, so Clint pauses on his work with the bows and gives the older (or is it younger??) guy a look.

 _No_ , is what he'd like to say. He's been pretty sure up until now that his soulmate's Natasha, even if she doesn't believe it, because he checks his time stamp. Sees it on the mirror when it's turned to zero, and the famous Black Widow shows up. But what he says instead:

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Cap says some more, looking like a sad puppy all of a sudden. 

"Something going on with your time stamp?"

"No. No." Cap tells, and then, "Maybe?―I don't―I don't know."

"You don't _know_?"

Well, that's kinda weird. The countdown till your soulmate thing's pretty fucked up if Clint has to be honest, but it gives him one less thing to be less certain about, which is a huge relief. He's pretty frickin certain about Nat. Eve since the start, if he were to tell you the truth.

"I just―" Cap continues, "There's no really definite manual guide behind its working, huh?"

"I guess not." Clint shrugs, because that's all he can do, looking curiously at Steve again. "You okay, though?"

"I'm adapting." An honest answer, a grimly smile.

Clint feels strangely like he's been missing something, dropping to the floor and frowns. "What is ― what's going on with your time stamp, Cap?"

"It's―" Cap seems hesitant, "I think it's starting over."

"Wait, what?" Fucking strange. "Can they _do_ that?"

Steve looks horribly ashamed, turning a shade puce, like he's been accused of a scandalised behaviour, which, in any other occasion, would've been funny. "I don't―know. Maybe. Yes. It's―all that I know is―when I was defrosted, my time stamp's gone. And then it's back. And now..."

"And now...?"

Steve looks defeated. "I don't know."

"Huh." Is all Clint has to offer, "It makes you re-think about stuff, huh?"

"Yeah. I suppose." Steve says, but looking like his head's far off to a memory that Clint'll never get to see (or maybe understand) and he sinks deeper onto the floor while he rubs on his torso like he's done it wrong.

Sometimes―but just _sometimes_ ―he really hates life.

 

 

 

 

 

Hill confronts him one day.

It's kind of from out of nowhere and totally unexpected, and he knows he can't even try to shimmy his way out of it when he's holding the very fabric that he's stolen (he's pretty sure he's emphasising the word _borrowed_ here) in his hold with a half-eaten sandwich dangling in between his teeth. Birdie's file.

"I wasn't aware you were so interested in other agents, Barton."

"Hah." He swallows a chunk of meat that's slipped off from the sandwich, trying to chew most of it before he speaks up properly. "I was just―"

"Save it." Her eyes narrowed, her shoulders squared: "When are you planning to give it back?"

He knows this is a trick question. "Uh―now?"

Hill makes an impression that she's smiling. "Good boy. I'm sure Nineteen would appreciate it."

"Please―" The guilt is back, rubbing at his burning chest, "―don't tell her."

"Assuming if she doesn't already know." Maria offers flatly, appearing calm and collected, as usual. "Don't fucking snoop around again, Barton. It's _unbecoming_." He really hates it when she starts spewing fancy words around, or making the words sounds like it's majestic or something. It makes him feel like―well, it makes him feel shitty. (He's got a thing with people with accents. And he's got another thing with people with accents who're mad at him.)

"I just―you don't―I think... I think I know her."

Well, _that_ certainly gets Hill's attention.

Her eyebrows crooked up, the corner of her lips twitching. He feels weird―because this is the second thing to do that he doesn't expect from her. But he shakes it off, says instead: "No. I'm _pretty_ sure I know her."

Maria suddenly glares. "What do you _mean_?"

"She―I don't know―fuck." He runs his fingers down his scalp frustratedly, a breath hissing between the gap of his teeth. "She's familiar."

"She _is_ familiar."

Clint feels his chest burns up again.

"She fought you. When you were under Loki's..." Hill trails off reluctantly, then sighs: "But you knock her down. Got a bruise at the size of your knuckles on the side of her head for two weeks, I think."

Oh. _Oh_.

Well, fuck.

 

 

 

 

 

Honestly, out of all things, he really doesn't expect _that_.

 

 

 

 

 

He never really gets to apologise.

SHIELD falls down.

It's really a bitch. It's an even _huge_ bitch when he finds out Nat's waist-deep in it running around being Rogers' second or whatever besides from the other dude. He feels a little relieved when he's finally known that Hill has gotten their backs from the beginning.

It's okay. As long as she's okay.

He fights himself out of Jakarta, goes to New York, picks up Bruce (only because the guy wants to) and drives them to Capitol Hill. He meets up with Hill when she's managing through the paperworks in releasing Steve from the hospital, and they're getting coffee when she finally blurts it out.

"I lied."

He chokes on his snacks. "Whu―"

"I lied. About Nineteen." His stomach feels weird; Maria continues, "Well, no. Not really. She _did_ fought you when you went under, got pretty beat up from that. But it's more than that."

_More?_

"According to her, you're her soulmate. Her number went down when she met you." Hill looks like she's biting her inner cheek, overwhelmed probably. She's so tired now, that's been clear; bags under her eyes, sunken glances between sips of coffee. Hell, Clint privately think she looks worse than Steve. "I checked it out. It's not a flux. I think she's right."

He's so friggin' confused.

"But how―"

"I don't know." Hill responds sharply and leaves it that, turning him breathless. Only Maria knows about his soulmate. And she's known it for years. From the moment he picks up Natasha and has to register himself to the fact that, yes, his number has indeed went zero. So, it can't be―

"She was married, isn't that―"

" _Was_." Hill looks annoyed; whether from acknowledging the idea that he has indeed went through Birdie's files,or otherwise, he's not particularly certain, "It didn't work out. She was trying to rebel against the system."

Aw, shuck.

"So, she's―"

"Yes."

"And I'm―"

"It seems so."

Clint sits back, a little. "But that can't be."

"I don't know what else to tell you, Clint." It's rare for Maria to call him with his given name, so when she does, it feels―it makes the whole thing more real, you know? He remember Cap's words; of how there's no actual manual guide behind it, and he suddenly feels like punching something. He breathes out slowly, looks around as though he could leap to his escape―disappearing sounds like such a dream on the moment. But he doesn't.

So he stares at Maria and asks, "Is she alive?"

"Yes," she answers, and Clint feels like a part of him breathes better.

"Okay." He stands up. "Thank you." And goes. He thanks God that Maria's not the type to follow.

 

 

 

 

 

He _does_ remember her by the end.

He remembers reviewing her skills for some mission while he's on one, remember a strange sharp jolt runs up through his ribs when he's assessing her files (a _different_ file), finally picking up her picture to analyse over. He's supposed to pick a team―he's not sure for _what_. But he remembers meeting Natasha for the first time, face-to-face, after two weeks of just following her trail; feet dropping in softly against the carpet of the cheap motel that he didn't even care to notice it.

And he remembers Birdie's face in the picture―remembers looking up to lift his shirt and sees that his number reducing to _zero_ ―before he finally takes in that the Widow's in the room with him.

 

 

 

 

Like he said: sometimes? He just really hates life.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, really: Clint's time stamp counts down to zero when he sees Bobbi's picture―but he mistaken it with Nat because that is also coincidentally the first time he's met her officially.


End file.
